


Way More Than I Bargained For

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Absurd, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crack, Developing Relationship, Eavesdropping, Friendship, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Overhead Sex, Poor Marius, Trapped In A Closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 04:10:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9530909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: Without warning, the closet door opened and Courfeyrac slid inside, beaming at them both. “I hear Enjolras’s dulcet tones of rage from upstairs and unless my ears are mistaken, Combeferre’s lecturing disapproval from in here which means it’s just about a party.”Most of Les Amis, trapped in a closet, with a bottle of tequila. What more needs to be said?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Chapter 3 of R. Kelly’s “Trapped in the Closet”, for what will be obvious reasons.
> 
> Usual disclaimer applies. Please tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos.

Combeferre shrugged out of his winter coat and winced at the sound of raised voices coming from the upper room. With a sigh of something close to reluctant acceptance, he went to hang to his coat in the broom closet of the Musain, letting out a shocked squeak when a hand seized his wrist and pulled him into the closet. “Grantaire?” he asked, accidentally knocking his head against a mop handle.  


“Shh,” Grantaire said, leaning against the door. “I’m trying to eavesdrop here.”

“I can see that,” Combeferre said, slightly miffed, and he made a show of brushing off his clothes. “But I just...I sort of assumed it was you up there, fighting with Enjolras.” Grantaire snorted but didn’t seem offended by the assumption, and Combeferre asked, “So if it’s not you, who is?”

Grantaire gave him a look. “Who do you think? Marius.”

“Oh, dear,” Combeferre said, wincing when he heard a dull thump, as if Enjolras had just slammed his hand against the table. “Have they been going at it long?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Pretty much since Marius made the mistake of that he understood Trump supporters’ fears of Muslims.” Combeferre scowled and Grantaire smirked. “In his defense, he was planning on following that up with ‘but I completely disagree with them’.”

Combeferre raised an eyebrow at him. “How do you know that?”

Grantaire’s smirk turned sly. “I may have recommended that he discuss the subject with Enjolras.”

Combeferre looked appalled. “You mean you’re the reason for this?” he asked, gesturing vaguely in the direction of upstairs.

Grantaire looked far too satisfied with himself. “Maybe, but if you say anything to Enjolras, I’ll deny it.” The shouting from upstairs grew louder, and Grantaire shook his head disapprovingly. “The problem is that Marius led with his disagreement. You can’t do that when arguing with Enjolras. You have to head him off by leading a point of agreement.”

“What do you mean?” Combeferre asked.

“Well, instead of saying, ‘I understand where Trump supporters are coming from, but I completely agree with you’ -- because let’s be honest, Enjolras is never going to let you get past the comma -- you have to say, ‘I completely agree with you that the Muslim ban is unconstitutional at worst and plainly in violation of federal immigration law at best, and while I understand but don’t agree with the fear that some Trump supporters have of Muslim immigrants, a ban would only do more harm than good.”

“Huh,” Combeferre said. “If you know how to lay out an argument like that, why don’t you ever do that when you fight with Enjolras?”

Grantaire stared at him like it was obvious. “Because that’s for diffusing an argument with Enjolras -- where the hell is the fun in that?”

“Fair point.” 

They both went silent for a moment before Combeferre pulled out his cellphone. “What are you doing?” Grantaire asked.

Combeferre didn’t look up. “Texting Courfeyrac,” he said.

Grantaire looked horrified. “Are you going to have him go to Marius’s rescue?”

“Of course not,” Combeferre said. “I wouldn’t voluntarily send anyone to break up what’s happening upstairs and interrupt Enjolras when he’s in the middle of a rant like this. But I want to gauge Courfeyrac’s mood because if he’s feeling Mama Bear, he might go up there anyway.”

Looking at Combeferre with something like new respect, Grantaire said accusingly, “And you’re worried he’s going to break up the fun.”

Combeferre looked affronted but didn’t deny it. “Either way, he’ll meet us in here and we’ll figure out what to do.” Grantaire just grunted in response, fishing his own phone out of his back pocket. “Now who are you texting?”

“Joly and Bossuet. I just remembered they were supposed to meet me before the meeting. We were going to get a bottle of tequila and play a drinking game.” Grantaire didn’t even have to look up from his phone to feel the disapproval emanating from Combeferre. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s shaping to be a long four years, and I’ve already marched more in the last week than I have in the past year. I need a break.”

“Leaving that aside for the moment, what exactly are you telling them?” Combeferre asked.

Grantaire shrugged. “I don’t know. To meet us in here, I guess.”

Combeferre frowned at him. “We’re in a broom closet. It’s already crowded with just the two of us, and it’ll be even more crowded when Courfeyrac gets here. If you add Joly and Bossuet, we won’t be able to move.”

Without warning, the closet door opened and Courfeyrac slid inside, beaming at them both. “I hear Enjolras’s dulcet tones of rage from upstairs and unless my ears are mistaken, Combeferre’s lecturing disapproval from in here which means it’s just about a party.”

Combeferre rolled his eyes. “Just get in here and keep your voice down,” he said, tugging Courfeyrac further into the closet and reaching out to close the door.

He had barely touched the door when it sprang open again, this time to admit Joly and Bossuet, who just managed to squeeze inside the closet, Bossuet somehow managing to knock every broom and mop off their hooks on the wall as he went. “Did I hear someone mention a party?” Bossuet asked brightly, producing a bottle of tequila that was miraculously unbroken. “Sorry we’re late, but Joly insisted on chopping the limes.”

“Right, because I was going to let you handle a knife,” Joly grumbled, pulling a baggie of lime wedges and packets of salt from his coat pocket and passing them around. Grantaire eagerly took a lime and salt packet, Courfeyrac grinned when they came his way, and Combeferre sighed heavily and gave everyone a disapproving glance before taking a lime and salt packet of his own. “I don’t suppose you thought to bring shot glasses?”

Bossuet glared at him. “You barely trusted me with the bottle. Do you really think I was going to risk eight glasses.”

“Eight?” Combeferre asked, as Grantaire snatched the bottle from Bossuet and took a swig, clearly needing no glass. “Who else are we expecting?”

“Who do you think?” Bahorel asked, shouldering the door open, since his arms were full of beer bottles. “Did you honestly think that we were gonna miss out on a party in the broom closet?”

Combeferre sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose before reaching out to accept a beer from Feuilly, who was distributing Bahorel’s beers. “Does anyone else notice or care that we no longer fit in the closet, which basically defeats the purpose of using it to hide from Enjolras?”

Jehan snorted. “Oh, lighten up,” he said, but a look of realization crossed Grantaire’s face along with a slow grin.

“Wait a minute,” he said, peering at Combeferre as if seeing him for the first time. “Listen, I’m no literary analyst or anything like that, but the words ‘hide from Enjolras’ seem to stand out to me. Because, hide from, well…” His grin turned smug. “You’re afraid of Enjolras, aren’t you?”

Combeferre looked offended. “I am not,” he protested, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Enjolras is my best friend, and has been for years. And frankly, I don’t appreciate--” He broke off when there was a particularly loud yell from upstairs, his expression tightening, and when Grantaire just continued to smirk at him, sighed. “Fine. I’m a little bit afraid of Enjolras. But you can’t tell me that you’re not also afraid of him!”

It took Grantaire a moment to work through the double negatives. “Hardly,” he scoffed, taking a swig of beer. “I’m not the one in here hiding. I was only in here because I was eavesdropping. Curious and nosy, yes. Scaredy cat, no.”

“Not to interrupt this fascinating look at your psyches,” Courfeyrac said loudly, holding up his cellphone, “but our darling Marius just texted me.” Everyone fell silent, all eyes on Courfeyrac, whose expression went from excitement to confusion as he scanned the text. “Marius said that he snuck out ten minutes ago, and wants to know if it’s safe to come back in.”

“Hang on,” Joly said, swallowing the sip of tequila he had just taken. “If Marius is outside, then who the hell is Enjolras yelling at?”

Combeferre’s eyes widened with realization. “Oh no. Enjolras is in a rage spiral. He’s yelling just to yell.”

For a moment, everyone was silent again, then Grantaire snorted loudly. “Christ, a psychiatrist would make a fortune if they could study us,” he said, sighing, and held his hand out. “Give me the tequila.”

“Why?” Bossuet pouted, about to take a sip.

Grantaire grabbed the bottle, took a huge swig, made a face and managed, “Liquid courage.” He handed the bottle back to Bossuet, clapped Bahorel on the shoulder and pushed past him to head upstairs.

“What are you doing?” Combeferre demanded while Feuilly shouted, “Don’t sacrifice yourself on our account!”

“Someone’s got to go tame the wild best,” Grantaire told Combeferre, giving Feuilly the finger and disappearing upstairs.

As the door at the top of the stairs closed, the group seemed to hold their collective breath, and after a long moment, the yelling stopped. “That seemed surprisingly civil,” Joly said, surprised and a little disappointed.

Bossuet smacked him. “Don’t tell me that you wanted Enjolras to start yelling at Grantaire.”

Joly smacked him back. “Better him than me.”

Bossuet considered that for a moment, then shrugged. “Fair.”

Suddenly, they heard a noise coming from upstairs again, but it wasn’t yelling that time. “What is that?” Courfeyrac asked, curious, and they all looked at each other as if daring someone to go up and investigate.”

Bahorel drew himself up to his full height. “Well, if you all are gonna be a bunch of babies about it, I’ll go show you how a real man handles eavesdropping.” With a self-confident swagger, he practically bounded up the steps, pausing at the top to press his ear against the door, clearly listening to whatever was going on inside.

Even in the dim light of the stairwell, they could see all the color drain from Bahorel’s face, and he sprinted down the stairs, yelping, “Abort mission, abort mission!”, and slamming the closet door behind him.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Feuilly asked, having slopped his beer on himself. 

Bahorel pointed a shaking mission toward the ceiling, which was beginning to creak. “Enjolras…and Grantaire…” he managed, gulping. “Doing the nasty.”

For a moment, everyone looked shocked, then Combeferre took a sip of beer. “Well, that’s certainly one way to distract Enjolras from his rage spiral,” he remarked calmly.

Joly gave him a scandalized look. “Yeah, but Grantaire? And Enjolras? And worst idea ever?”

Combeferre shrugged. “Better him than me.” When everyone continued staring at Combeferre, he said defensively, “What? It’s not like we weren’t all expecting this to happen at some point.”

“At some point, sure,” Jehan said, clearly put out. “But I had two months to go before I would’ve won the pool.”

Bossuet brightened. “Oh, good point. Which one of us is the winner?” he asked, pulling out his cellphone and scrolling through something. “It looks like our winner is...Huh. Marius. Who’d’ve guessed.”

Suddenly, they heard the unmistakable sound of someone coming into the Musain and heading toward the stairs, and Courfeyrac paled. “Oh, shit.”

“What?” Combeferre asked.

Courfeyrac gestured weakly towards the door. “Speaking of Marius...I texted him to tell to him it was ok to come back in.”

They all stared at each other in horror, wincing as the footsteps clomped up the stairs and cringing in collective silence as the door at the top of the stairs opened. Enjolras and Grantaire both started yelling simultaneously. “Sorry, sorry, sorry!” Marius shrieked shrilly as he ran back downstairs and out of the Musain.

For a moment, no one said anything, then they all looked at each other and started laughing. “How long do we give them?” Jehan asked, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

Combeferre picked up the bottle of tequila and looked at it critically. “I say until we finish the bottle.”

Courfeyrac grinned. “Fair enough.” He grabbed the bottle of tequila from Combeferre just as the grunts and moans started up from the upstairs again. “Though we might need another bottle of tequila.”

Bossuet winced as someone from upstairs let out a pornography-worthy moan. “We might need to make that two.”

“Frankly, my dear,” Joly said, taking a pull from his beer bottle, “I don’t think there’s enough tequila in the world to get through this.”

Jehan cleared his throat. “So this does beg the question -- should we tell Grantaire and Enjolras that we, uh, know what they were doing?”

“Well, Grantaire will already know, or at least assume,” Feuilly reasoned.

“And Enjolras?” Bahorel asked.

Combeferre answered what all of them were thinking. “Fuck no.”


End file.
